


The Coffin-Maker's Lullaby

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Dorks in Love, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief/Mourning, Romance, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Slow Burn, trust is the best aphrodisiac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: He dreams of it- The Coffin. The Choice. Breaking Molly to save her. Breaking himself in the saving.But now he's the one struggling, and he hasn't a notion how to go about dealing with any of this...Angst, spoilers for TFP





	1. The Coffin-Maker's Lullaby

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine; takes place directly after The Final Problem. ****

* * *

**THE COFFIN-MAKER'S LULLABY**

* * *

 

He has nightmares about it on the helicopter ride back.

Sherlock had assumed sleep would be impossible; The noise of the damn helicopter would see to that, as would the revelations of the day. Even his injuries should have made it impossible to sleep, the adrenaline running through his body making him twitchy. Sharp. It feels like there’s a livewire running under his skin.

And yet, sleep he does.

Dream, he does.

He closes his eyes and drifts off- His body can take only so much apparently-  and then he’s in blessed oblivion, pain disappearing. It feels so... safe, after everything that’s happened. _So much horror has visited him in this damnable, dark year._ His rest is like drowning in ink. In darkness and warmth and unspun memory... _He could stay like this, oh, he could stay like this forever..._

And then he feels the cold.

The wind and sea come next, howling like a hungry ghost.

Wood murmurs against his fingertips, stone whispers beneath his bare feet.

He opens his eyes and he knows where he’ll be.

He sees the coffin.

He’s touching the lid.

Those words- _I Love You_ \- they’re sharp against his fingertips. Hateful. Trapping. Exhilarating. He feels it come rushing back, that screaming rage, that explosive, mindless, aching, vicious thing he calls love and he has to. There’s no choice. He smashes his fist into the pale wood. Splinters tear open his hand, scratch scarlet against his skin.

He hears a gasp. A small sob.

The coffin lid cracks open, the halves separating like two sides of a theatre curtain and there inside lies Molly Hooper.

She’s pale. Bleeding.

Small and perfect and terrifyingly, bewitchingly ordinary.

She looks up at Sherlock with wide, beseeching eyes and it’ s only then that he realises his fist in _inside_ her chest. He’s torn through bone and sinew, pushed his hand right into her body. Her heart is thumping, a bloody mess of meat and muscle and bone and he can’t, it’s too much, he has to do something, he has to stop it-

He comes awake with a gasp. A shudder.

Immediately John is at his side, asking if he’s ok.

The helicopter lands in London soon after; he’s driven home and he falls into bed. He doesn’t try to sleep and he doesn’t want to, but what he wants doesn’t seem to matter.

He wishes he could tell Molly that but he doesn’t have the words.

* * *

He comes with Mycroft to see his parents, the next day.

To say that Mummy and Daddy are less than pleased with their eldest is something of an understatement: They rail. They rant. Mummy swears she’s going to kill her elder brother, Rudy, for facilitating Mycroft in this charade. It doesn’t matter how clever he is, he hadn’t the right to do this-

Sherlock does what he can.

He defends his brother as he knows he must.

The thing is what it is, he says, and it’s telling that both Mummy and Daddy understand what he means by that. (Mycroft doesn’t seem to.)

When he finally wanders back to John’s he falls into the spare bed.

He doesn’t bother to take off any of his clothes, not even his shoes.

* * *

 

He wakes up screaming and immediately feels a pang of guilt, because his histrionics have woken Rosie.

John sees to his daughter and pretends he believes Sherlock’s glib, “I’m fine.”

The next morning, however, when Sherlock comes down to have his breakfast, he finds Molly Hooper waiting for him.

* * *

She looks tired.

Wan.

Beautiful.

Mollyish.

She’s eating a piece of toast, a cup of coffee at her elbow.

As soon as she looks up at him she blushes and looks immediately away.

The silence between them is loud and hard.

“John told me,” she says eventually, the words spoken directly into her mug. “He said-  He said your sister was playing a game with you. That she made you ask me. That she made you say it. You thought there was a bomb in my flat and you wanted to keep me safe so you- you-”

“I had to.” His voice is soft and he doesn’t know why, he just knows he doesn’t like it. “Eurus- My sister, the one who did all this- Eurus was trying to make a point-”

“And what point was that?” There’s anger in her voice now; her shoulders twist, hunch, as if fearing some blow and Sherlock belatedly realises that that’s what this conversation feels like to her. A Boxing match. A fight. _A fight for survival?_

He thinks maybe he understands that.

“She wanted me to hurt someone I cared about,” he says quietly. “She wanted me to hurt you because she knew that it would hurt me.”

“So it was- _I_ was-” Her throat works but she can’t say the words. _She can’t say she was just a means to an end_. Suddenly her eyes are bright with tears and Sherlock can’t help it, he doesn’t remember deciding to do it but suddenly he’s beside her, pulling her against him in a ramshackle attempt at a hug-

_He needs to her to be close._

She presses her face into his side, he hunches his tall frame over her. If this is a fight for survival, he finds himself thinking, then he’ll give her every advantage. He’ll give her all he can. Her tears come and he feels it again, that rage, that helpless, lawless, howling thing his heart calls love- _How can something so horrible be thought to be wonderful?-_

He doesn’t understand it, but then he never has.

She pulls away from him eventually. Spent. Embarrassed.

She murmurs something about needing to go and she rises. Looks around distractedly for her coat. As if on auto-pilot Sherlock finds it. Holds it open for her. It seems to swamp her, there in the middle of John’s kitchen. In the middle of Sherlock’s wake.

_He’s starting to suspect he’s not thinking straight._

She looks up at him with eyes that are scared and hurt and dark. “It’ll ne alright, Sherlock,” she says. “It will be- Eventually I’ll- I mean, we’ll-” She sighs. Shakes her head. “It will be ok,” she says softly and she holds out her hand to him, offers it. She’s distracted enough to want to shake hands goodbye.

Sherlock takes the hand that is offered. Shakes it. He keeps his eyes on hers the entire time. She pulls away and as she does she sees the scrapes on his knuckles from the Sherrinford coffin- Or rather, what was left of it.

She frowns. Looks at them more closely.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” she asks.

The words rise, fill his mouth with their sharpness. Their realness. There’s meat in them, bone and sinew and heart. He wants to tell her about tearing apart the coffin. He wants to tell her he knows he’s had her heart in his hands for years and all he’s done with it is rend it to shreds.

But he can’t. Not yet.

This thing inside him, it’ s still too raw to make words from.

***

When she’s gone he pulls out his violin. Starts to play. He doesn’t care if his knuckles sting, he knows he has to do this.

The tune he plays is Molly’s and someday... Someday she’ll know it for what it is.


	2. The Coffin-Maker's Waltz

Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright in intended. There will be another part- possibly with smut. Until then, enjoy...

**THE COFFIN-MAKER'S WALTZ**

The nightmares continue, long after that day in John’s.

Almost every night he dreams of the coffin. Dreams of Molly. Dreams of her heart in his hands, bloody and skittish and bereft. Dreams of the mess he made of her, the mess he’s making of her still. With three little words he broke himself and her open and now they’re out he has no idea how to capture them again-  

The thing between them, the thing which survived his cruelty and Moriarty’s machinations and two years’ exile and even his drugs relapses has been destroyed.

He has no idea how to live in this post-truth world he’s created.

But he forges on. Makes himself continue. _His life is a currency he intends to spend, given how dearly it was bought_. During the day he can function, help out with Rosie. Keep up to date with his clients. John knows something’s wrong but he has the sense to keep himself to himself.

But at night, oh, at night… Sherlock finds his sleep is not his own. His dreams are not his own. He doesn’t feel he has the right to skip this particular form of torture.

He did this to Molly; he can live with the consequences.

 _That is,_ he often reminds himself savagely, _what she has had to do, after all._

* * *

 

***

Eurus asks about her- In her own fashion, of course.

Eye to eye they stand, playing violin together in her cell on Sherrinford. Though she will no longer use words she will communicate in this way with Sherlock; They speak to each other through playing, they follow and tease and collaborate. Mycroft is a tune to her, their parents too. Sherlock. Moriarty. Him. John.

All can be rendered into recognisable notes.

All can be translated into Eurus’ native tongue.

But other things can be communicated too. Sadness. Joy. Regret. Curiosity. Fear and pain and anger. Loneliness, that scattershot medley they both understand so well, that first tune both of them learned to play-

It is in their playing of loneliness that Sherlock feels closest to his sister.

_Perhaps that is why she manages to cut so close to the bone as she does on this day._

They’re bantering. Teasing. Going toe to toe. The music is sparkling and witty, vivacious and light; He was in St Bart’s with Molly this morning, their conversation stilted and uncomfortable, and Sherlock is trying to keep how upsetting he found it from his sister.

_He really doesn’t want her becoming curious about Molly again._

So he plays a phrase. Eurus grins and responds. Repeats it. He takes her repetition and drops it to a minor key. She responds again, returning it to its original key: He matches her again, and again he finds himself transposing the tune into minor.

Through he’s trying to keep the tone light, he can’t seem to help himself.

And it has consequences- Eurus clearly knows something’s wrong with him. _Her ability to read people does, after all, outstrip his own._ Music hits the air like smoke, a hiss of sound. Notes spill, serpentine and sly, from his sister’s violin as she perfectly reproduces the opening notes of The Woman’s Suite.

The question in her choice is implicit: is this what’s bothering him? Her words from long ago echo in his head- _So, you’ve had sex? Me too_ \- and despite himself Sherlock starts slightly. Frowns. Shakes his head and then immediately tries to cover it, the attempt causing him to drop a couple of notes.

He flushes red in embarrassment.

Though he quickly regains his calm his sister’s eyes narrow, her expression turning hawkish. He sees the moment she deduces the cause of his embarrassment, just as he sees the moment she deduces the reason behind that. To his surprise she softens her music, reproducing that opening phrase of The Woman’s Suite but slowing it. Making it gentler. Sweeter. Somehow she manages to make it more melancholy too.

The question in this tune is obvious, too.

Sherlock pauses, lowering his bow and staring. Considering how he wants to answer. Though she frowns and appears disapproving, Eurus nevertheless continues playing, her tune lilting and gentle. _It sounds like something she’s been thinking of for a while_. She runs through that modified opening phrase a couple of times, trying it in different time signatures. Eventually the tune settles slowly into a waltz rhythm, each note stretched out. Each note tremulous.

_Were anyone but him to listen, Sherlock thinks their heart might break._

But Sherlock hasn’t a heart, and so he tells himself he is safe. After a moment he joins in, taking the tune and adding his own twist to it. Putting it into a major key- he can’t bear to keep it as sad as that- and speeding it up slightly. Making it brighter. Warmer. More, well, more Mollyish.

Again Eurus frowns at him but this time he meets her eyes. Holds them. There’s a challenge in her expression now, one he knows his own look matches. She may think of love as a lament, but he doesn’t have to agree.

She must dislike this idea though; with startling suddenness she reverts to her version of the tune again, her fingers moving against the strings with growing speed and harshness, her attempts to drown out his version of the tune obvious- Crass, almost. Her playing becomes more physical, body swooping and hunching as she runs through the tune, bow scraping across the violin strings like nails across a chalk-board-

Everything about her now seems destructive. Violent.

 _For a moment she’s the woman who tortured him and John and Mycroft again_.

The thought is painful but Sherlock doesn’t react, just continues to play. He’s starting to enjoy the melody- The Molly-Melody, he thinks he’ll call it. It makes him feel strong. Calm. Centred.

 _Perhaps_ , a voice within him whispers, _that’s the point._

Eurus doesn’t like his enjoyment, he can tell- Though whether it’s because they’re discussing sentiment or romantic attachment, he’s not nearly so sure.

Maybe she just doesn’t like that he has something she can’t take from him.

It doesn’t really matter though: Eurus’ attempt to drown him out intensifies. Escalates. It’s not banter now- It’s a fight to the death. For a long moment they continue to parry and thrust, notes rising and cresting, her loudness accentuating his softness, until-

Again, without any warning, she pulls the violin away from her shoulder. Turns sharply and strides to the back of her cell.

She holds the Stradivarius in her hands for a moment, staring at it as if she’s about to do grave damage to it. Her breathing is harsh, her shoulders hunched.

She ducks her head, hair hiding her face and she looks almost like she’s trying to protect herself from a beating.

Sherlock is suddenly very aware of how nervous her guards look; Before he can make a move though, she’s back across her cell, face to face with him. Her expression is a sneer. She looks like she could smash her bow to smithereens, as if she could tear the world to pieces with her bare hands.

Sherlock meets her gaze calmly and continues to play.

The more he plays this tune the better he feels.

As if unsure of what to do when her threats fail Eurus frowns. Stares at him.

_It’s the same reaction she always has when Mummy is kind to her._

That something so commonplace confuses her so much makes Sherlock feel almost unbearably sad.

After a moment, against her will it seems, she starts humming to tune he’s playing. Her eyes turn inwards, thinking. Sorting. Deciding. She walks back to her bed, picks up the violin. Sets it to her shoulder and starts playing Sherlock’s version of Molly’s tune. (She somehow manages to make it sound mournful still.) They play together, Sherlock leading this time. Eurus following. She’s still humming the tune even as she plays it, and the question in her eyes is still obvious.

“Yours?” she asks eventually, the first words she’s said in months, and he nods.

_He just knows Mycroft’s going to be tedious about this._

“Mine,” he answers, nevertheless.  

He knows precisely what- or rather, who- they’re talking about.

“Strong,” she says. “You. Her. It- The thing between you. That’s why it made me curious.”

She shrugs, a careless, callous hting

“An experiment is always a worthy endeavour, I suppose,” she adds. “Even if it’s in emotional context.”

Her expression is dripping in distaste and she starts playing a slow, sepulchral march.

_Her meaning is explicit: It might be worthy, but it’s your funeral, little brother._

Sherlock lets out a bark of laughter despite himself. Brings his tune to an end and puts his violin away.

Their conversation- such as it was- is over for the day.

Though he knows he shouldn’t perhaps take her at her word, he can’t help but feel his sister has given him the closest thing to her blessing she’s capable of giving. Or maybe she’s just accepted that, where Molly’s concerned, he’s not to be trifled with. Whatever it is, Eurus continues playing, as well as singing. Unsurprisingly her voice is as lovely as her musicianship.

He hooks his bag over his shoulder and walks out, being sure to lock the door firmly behind him as he does- It’s his parents’ turn to come and see her tomorrow-

Every single guard he passes on the way out is shaking like a leaf.

He barely even notices though: He’s thinking about his last rites, and what a gift his sister just gave him.  

He finds himself still humming the Molly Tune, even on the helicopter ride home.

***

He goes back to John’s, falls into bed.

He’s woken by a text message from Mycroft, one demanding to know what he and Eurus had spoken about.

Sherlock treats this with the respect it deserves: He sends brother dearest a photo of his middle finger and then turns the damn phone off. Flops onto his back and closes his eyes.

The traffic outside whispers soothingly as he drifts into sleep.

***

As always, he dreams of the coffin. Of Molly within it.

She looks tiny- Precise- Perfect- tonight.

Her skin is flushed and lovely, no deathly pallor for once. When she opens her eyes they’re softer. Gentler.

_She’s not afraid of him and oh but that makes Sherlock glad._

But glad or not, lovely or not, the dream continues as it always does. His hand going through the wooden lid, through Molly’s chest-plate. There’s blood and pain. Horror at what he’s done to her. He stands and stares down at his own fist, lodged inside her familiar, fragile frame-

This time though, instead of crying out she reaches out to him.

She wraps her fingers gently around his wrist there where it’s pressed against her chest.

Very slowly, very carefully, she raises her free hand and lays it, palm-down, right on top of his heart.

The weight of it is warm and slight and strangely, wonderfully familiar.

A sense of… something washes through him. Something he doesn’t recognise. Something that instinctively scares him. It’s soft. Sweet. Gentle. It makes him recoil- _not for you,_ his mind snarls, _not for you- **Not for you, Sherlock Holmes-**_

“This _is_ for you,” the Dream Molly says. “This has always been for you- Just like this has always been for me…”

And as he watches her hand presses against his skin, melting through his flesh and into his chest. Disappearing inside him as his own disappears inside her.

He feels warmth. Her fingers moving. A dart of joy, like the thrill of the chase, and suddenly he realises that Molly has his heart in her hands now.

She’s holding it as lightly- as surely-  as she holds a scalpel.

“It isn’t vivisection,” she says softly. “It’s alchemy, Sherlock.”

He awakes with a start but this time there’s no scream on his lips and he fancies he can still feel the press of her fingers against his heart.

***

He turns up at Bart’s the next day, practically vibrating with nervousness.

He’s still not entirely sure he’s doing the right thing but well, he has to know.

_He has to know if alchemy is a thing still within his grasp._

Stamford takes one look at him and promptly takes his students into another room for their seminar.

Sherlock watches them go with an impatient roll of his eyes.

Once they’ve exited he makes his way into the Morgue, pausing only to check his reflection in the room’s window. Trying to tame his curls and make them look less unruly, wishing his rather ghastly pallor looked a bit less, well, corpse-like  The last few months have taken their toll on him. At least he’s wearing the shirt he suspects Molly likes him best in- the aubergine one- and his trusty Belstaff.

_She seems to have rather a thing about the Belstaff._

Previous experience tells him that she should find him physically pleasing, which may help things along somewhat, but he’s still nervous. Still unsure. In fact, almost every nerve in his body is unhappy with his being here. Whatever he may have told Eurus, he’s still not entirely certain he has a right to be intrude upon Molly, not with all he’s put her through-

And then he sees her, standing by her desk, her white coat draped loosely around her shoulders.

Her lovely dark hair is plaited and twined and pinned against her head.

She’s wearing ill-fitting jeggings and a baggy jumper, a pair of latex gloves covering her fingers. There’s a smudge of ink on her left cheek and her eyes are tired. Smudged. Her face is drawn.

She must hear the door open for she looks up and, upon recognising him, he sees the now-familiar wariness enter her expression, her body language shifting, turning closed and unwelcoming-

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” she asks and her voice is tired. Sorrowful. Guarded.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

Counts to ten.

 _Alchemy,_ he tells himself, _not vivisection..._

He takes the biggest, deepest breath he ever has, and then-

“I was wondering if you wanted a coffee,” he murmurs, and carefully makes his way over to her side.


	3. The Coffin-Maker's Torch Song

 

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Many thanks to all those who've reviewed; I know I said there would be three chapters but I need a little bit more time... Enjoy!_

* * *

**THE COFFIN-MAKER'S TORCH SONG**

* * *

 

She gives a nod. Names a time.

She’s an autopsy to do, she tells him, and then the next of kin to speak with; she won’t be ready for a while.

Sherlock nods, outwardly pleased and inwardly terrified at the thought of having a whole forty minutes to wait for her.

But he nods. Agrees. He has tissue samples to look over, he’ll do that.

He tries to catch up on his experiments but nerves mean he can’t keep his hands steady enough to make it worth his while.

* * *

 

She takes him to a tiny coffee shop, a few minutes’ walk from Bart’s.

It is, he knows, her favourite, but he doesn’t mention that- Things are fractious enough, without his making her feel like he’s been watching her, though of course he has.

_If he’s being truthful, he now knows that he’s been watching her for years._

When they head inside the barista grins and nods them towards a quiet corner, complete with battered couch and a low table. It’s sectioned off from the rest of the room, rather like the snug in an old country pub; Judging by how easily she slips into it, he assumes this is Molly’s habitual spot. This is confirmed when a few moments later a flat white appears, brought by the same barista.

She places it in front of Molly and then looks at Sherlock expectantly.

He’s tempted to ask for a straight espresso but he stops himself- the last thing he needs is more stimulants- and instead requests an Earl Grey tea, piping hot.

The woman nods, giving Molly a wry smile before bustling away. A small teapot and cup arrive a few minutes later, sugar, lemon and a small jug of milk which is shaped like a fox set to their side. Molly smiles faintly when she sees it- “Amira likes you,”- before picking up her flat white. Blowing on it softly. She takes a peremptory sip, grimacing as she finds it too hot and putting it back on its saucer. Looking down into her lap.

Her hands are wringing themselves together.

Sherlock fusses with his tea, feeling similarly uncomfortable. Stirring the tea-bag about in the teapot and carefully doling milk and sugar into his cup rather than look at her and see her discomfort. Eventually, however, he has to pour. Sip. He too finds his drink to hot and sets it back on its saucer.

It is only when he has done this that he allows himself to recognise how quiet things between he and Molly have become.

_Unfortunately, he finds he hasn’t a notion how to change that._

All the way here he’d spent his time thinking about what he’d say, rehearsing speeches and now, now that he’s actually before her he finds himself entirely unable to speak. His throat’s tight as a noose. His brain is mercilessly, terrifyingly blank.

A beat, long and tense and heaving with things unspoken- Things which are, perhaps, unspeakable.

The silence is only broken when Molly takes another sip of her coffee before reaching for the sugar bowl. Eager to have something- anything- to do, Sherlock picks it up and hands it to her, his thumb brushing against her fingers as he does. _He feels the electricity of it down to his the soles of his feet_.

Her index finger trails against his skin and instantly she frowns, takes in a slightly sharper breath than might be expected.

“Sherlock, what’s this?” she asks and when he doesn’t answer- in fact, he freezes- she takes the sugar-bowl from him. Sets it down on the table. Her little hand comes up and takes his, turning it so that she can examine the thumb she’s just touched. The thumb with- Inwardly Sherlock grimaces.

_He doesn’t want her to see **that**._

The scar is small. Etched into his skin. It’s all that remains of the injuries to his hands from having destroyed the Sherrinford coffin, but he can’t bear- _He doesn’t want her to know-_

“What’s this?” she asks again, her voice stronger.

He risks a look at her and she’s frowning at him, worry in her eyes.

_He hates making her worry._

“It’s nothing,” he says hastily, taking his hand back from her. “A mere- I had some injuries after Sherrinford, that’s all. That one has yet to heal.”

And he picks up his tea, takes a hasty sip before attempting to distract himself by adding a truly disgusting amount of sugar. It’s going to be utterly undrinkable now and he doesn’t care. Because-

“Your hands,” she’s saying softly, still looking at him. There’s a… keenness to her gaze now. “When you spoke to me after… About the, em, the phone-call, your hands were-” Her eyes widen, horror moving through them. Realisation too. _She’s always so much more observant than people give her credit for_. “Did _she_ do this to you?” she asks. “Your sister? Did she try to-?”

“I did it myself.” He’s no idea where the words come from, just as he’s now idea when he decided to say them. But now that they’re said, he knows they’re true. He did, in a very real sense, do this to himself. He always does. A memory from long ago flutters into his mind… _You always say the most horrible things, always… Always…_

Molly frowns, reaches across the table, heedless, apparently, of his discomfort, and takes the offending limb in her palm, peering at his scarred thumb in worry, brushing her own thumb over it.

“This looks almost like a defensive wound,” she says quietly. “I don’t see how you could have done this to yourself-”

“Of course you don’t! You’re too- ” _Kind? Forgiving? Generous? All of the above?_ The words come out more sharply than he intended, her nearness and her sentiment making him feel panicked. Out of sorts. Clumsy.

He hates when he gets like this.

Suddenly he wants, more than anything, to take his hand back and run. To dash all the way back to Baker Street and hide in his room. Lock his door. Pour everything he’s feeling into his violin until it flows smoothly back out of him, the chaos of his feelings made beautiful and orderly and manageable by music-

“Sherlock,” he hears her speaking, as if from far away. “Sherlock, please look at me…”

It’s only then that he realises he’s started shaking, that his breath is coming rather faster and more intensely than he thinks it ought. With a start he finds himself hunching over too, his coat forgotten, his plan to talk to Molly, to convince her of the possibility of some alchemy between them, utterly undone.

_The image of the coffin on Sherrinford rises behind his eyes and in that moment he knows that he is lost._

Shame fills him, embarrassment too, and also a sort of helpless annoyance with himself, because of all of occasions for this to come up and overwhelm him, does it have to be _this_ one? Does it have to be when he’s with the one woman he’s emotionally manipulated since the moment they met, and with whom he’s trying, finally, to be honest? Sherlock knows how this will look, what she’ll think of it. She’ll think he’s trying to use guilt to make her forgive him and he can’t- _he doesn’t want her to-_

“No,” he can hear his own voice mutter, “No, no, no, no. no!”

This tumbling, twisting train of thoughts only slows when he realises that Molly’s come to sit beside him, her small, warm shoulder pressed against his own. Her thigh warm against his. She’s wrapped both her hands around his larger one and she’s leaning into him, humming softly, her head on his shoulder. Her body tight against his.

He looks down at her, trying to catch his breath, and she nods gently. Smiles. There’s worry in her expression, but also an fragile, soft sort of fondness.

“You’re lovely when you do that,” he blurts out and she blinks, surprised.

“You’re always lovely,” he blurts out once more, because he’s honestly not sure he’ll ever be bold enough to say something so blunt to her again.

Her head dips, red flooding her cheeks. He too colours, feeling like a moron. So much for wooing her, or charming her. So much for the debonair speeches he’d rehearsed, designed to convince her to give him a try. _Alchemy’s not in his grasp,_ he thinks, _not if this is the shite he comes out with-_

Her hands tighten on his though. “You’re not a natural charmer, are you?” she says gently and he shakes his head. Lets it hang some more. She strokes her fingers gently against his palm and slowly, slowly… A spark lights within him.

_It’s quiet, and wan, and easily overlooked- Rather like her. Rather like **them**._

“I love you,” he murmurs. “You said “I love you,” and then I did… And, you see, the thing of it is, I think we both meant it…”

And he closes his eyes, tries to concentrate on this feeling. Not the big, roller-coaster ones of a few minutes ago, or even the ones spurred forth by his recollection of Sherrinford and Eurus’ game. No, he wants… _He wants his fill of him and Molly._

_He wants his fill of **this**._

When he risks a look at her now her eyes are shivering with unshed tears. His thumb goes to her cheek, brushing a tear away; After a moment he screws his courage to its sticking place and brings her fingers sheepishly to his mouth. Presses a slightly awkward, entirely spontaneous kiss on her knuckles. (Well, he aims for her knuckles but he manages to get the heel of her hand instead. He doesn’t think it matters though, because he hears Molly’s gasp and then feels her body angle more sharply towards him.) He looks up at her and her eyes are bright. Sharp. With slow, gentle deliberateness she brings her free hand up to his cheek and lays it there. Strokes her thumb against his cheek, as he had done when he brushed away her tears.

He shivers at the feel of it.

“Tell me,” she says, her voice nearly breathless. “Tell me what this is, Sherlock.” She shakes her head. “Tell me it’s not… That’s we’re not- You’re not…”

“It’s alchemy,” he whispers before reaching in and laying a small, chaste kiss upon the very corner of her mouth.

She stares at him for a long moment and then presses a kiss to the exact same spot, at the corner of his lip.

* * *

 

They do talk, after that.

The words are quiet. Intense. Explanations, mainly. Apologies too, and pleas. He manages to tell her about the coffin, about Eurus’ game. About what he’d realised when he heard her say those three, world-shaking little words for the first time.  

“I wanted to hear them,” he tells her, his voice almost ragged. “I didn’t realise how much I wanted them until you said them out loud- I didn’t realise how much you meant to me until I thought you were about to be taken from me-”

And he shakes his head, embarrassed by how clueless he’d been. How blind. _Sherlock Holmes, proper genius?_ _I think not_.

She hushes him, wrapping her arms around him this time as his throat catches on those last words and as he leans into her embrace, as he lets her comfort him, he realises that he never wants to be without this comfort- this loveliness- again.

He doesn’t care what he has to do to earn it.

Despite that though, Molly is cautious when he speaks of sentiment. Though she still cares for him, she says- and though telling him she loved him out loud had been oddly cathartic for her, as it turned out- she is not willing to put a label on what she feels yet. She’s not willing to rush headlong into anything. “You’ve not got a great track record, Sherlock,” she tells him. She snorts in wry amusement. “Neither do I, it has to be said. So… I don’t know what I want yet, you know? I know that I love you, I know that I want to be around you, but I just… “ She sighs, rake a hand through her hair. “There’s an awful lot of emotional water under the bridge with us, that’s all I’m saying.”

She looks him right in the eye. “The only thing I know is that I’m not ready.”

Sherlock nods as if he understands, though he doesn’t. Not really. His feelings for her are simply _there_ now _,_  a thing he is aware of now. As natural to him as breathing. The idea that there might be a choice about how he feels seems… odd to him. Whether she agrees to take him or not, he knows he will continue to love her: It’s simply part of who he is now.

But still, he loves her. He trusts her. And intellectually, at least, he supposes he _can_ understand her reticence. He needs to give her time. Let her think. Let her choose. He owes her that, at least.

_That, and a whole lot more._

So he nods. Presses a kiss to her cheek and tells her he’ll wait for her. That he doesn't care how long it takes, because it's her and when he says that her eyes light up with something beautiful and hopeful and bright. When they finally stand and exit the cafe, Amira is cleaning the coffee machine; the place is devoid of customers. They make their way out into the rain and night and as they do Sherlock reaches out. Takes her hand.

She blinks at him in surprise.

“Humour me?” he asks and she nods, looking pleased. Shy.

She squeezes his hand and again he feels that firefly prick of sentiment within him.

He holds her hand all the way to her tube station and even when he gets back to Baker Street he finds he can still feel the press of it, there against his skin.


	4. The Coffin-Maker's Nocturne

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Many thanks for all the reviews this has gotten- I'm not sure if this is the end yet. But still, enjoy...

* * *

**THE COFFIN-MAKER’S NOCTURNE**

* * *

 

He finds it surprisingly easy to, well... He supposes the correct word is “court,” Molly.

 _He expects it to be terrifying, and baffling, but because it’s with_ **_her_ ** _it’s not._

Admittedly, he may have been bracing himself for the worst initially, and that may have negatively skewed his expectations. After all, he is painfully aware that he has no experience in this arena- Stoned Uni-era hookups and fake engagements are a far cry from his current feelings, or their object. (He is also painfully aware that Uni-era Molly would have been utterly uninterested in the self-involved little toe-rag he had once been.)

And Molly isn’t exactly chomping at the bit, when it comes to their relationship; She said she wants to take her time and that’s exactly what she’s doing.

So they text.

They chat.

They hold hands, when they’re out together.

They trade mock doe-eyed glances at one another in the Morgue because they both find the way it frustrates John to be hilarious.

But while they see one another outside of her duties and his, they do not spend the night at one another’s homes; That night in Amira’s cafe was the last time they kissed and Molly has yet to indicate whether it will be the only time, either.

Sherlock knows John thinks he’s mad, not pushing it. Leaving things so thoroughly up to Molly.

His desire to see his friends as happy as he and Mary were is clearly blinding him to the reality of Molly’s feelings-  

And her rights, as Sherlock sees them.  

Sometimes the detective wishes he could make John understand that they’re not he and Mary, just as he wishes he could persuade his friend to stop worrying and let him handle this as he sees fit. Because it doesn’t matter to Sherlock, that he and Molly are taking things slow. It truly doesn’t. Their lack of sexual activity doesn’t bother him either, not considering how long he’s been willingly celibate, and why.

When he and Molly are together, when they’re walking along the Embankment together, or watching crap telly in her flat while they share a bottle of cheap Tesco wine, he finds himself transported. Delighted. Utterly at home and utterly grounded.

_The experience of it is quite… humbling._

And for that reason, he’s grateful for what he has at the moment, no matter that it’s not quite what he wants yet. He’s actually… enjoying how she treats him: He had always assumed that, were he to pursue a woman, he would be forced to change who he is, that he would be forced to transmogrify into someone else. That’s what he’d done in Uni. That’s what he’d done with Janine.

With Molly however…  She knows the worst of him, as well as the best. She’s stuck around for years, made it obvious that she cares about him- no, likes him- just as he is. She doesn’t want someone else, she wants Sherlock, and for a man so used to never fitting in anywhere, being so accepted feels like a gift. A gift he doesn’t deserve, but a gift he’ll hoard in anyway.

It’s an odd thing, he sometimes thinks, to feel so… lucky. So _wanted._

He’s not used to it, and he rather suspects that Mycroft would be horrified to know how sentimental he’s become now that he has experienced it for himself.

* * *

 

They start sharing a bed after about five months.

Not having sex, you understand, just sharing a bed.

Molly explains the difference to him in stuttering, halting words, clearly expecting an argument which doesn’t come.

She asks why, perplexed, and Sherlock has the good sense to be honest and tell her.

“I _like_ sharing a bed with you,” he says matter-of-factly as he checks his samples, the silent murmur of the morgue whispering away behind him. “Whether we do anything else is immaterial- The offer itself is more than pleasant enough to be acceptable.”

And he nods as if that settles it. Sets another slide up to examine.

Molly’s staring at him, so hard that he’s starting to suspect he’s said something Not Good and he had better work out the most polite way of asking what it is-

Before he can parse the words however she reaches up on tiptoe and, very quickly, presses a kiss to his lips.

Her hand comes down to grip his; they’re both wearing latex gloves but his face still heats.

“Thursday night?” she asks quietly and he nods. Smiles.

There’s suddenly a rather pleasant knot in his stomach.

“Thursday night it is. Unless-”

Her smile is wry. “Unless a case comes up. I know, Sherlock.”

The words are said fondly however, and the smile which accompanies them lights up her eyes. Sherlock carries their image- and her words- with him for the rest of the day.

They’re given pride of place in his Mind Palace and he suspects they’ll be there for quite a while.

The fact that they’ve taken the place of a broken, wrecked coffin is not something on which he wishes to dwell.

* * *

 

The first few nights sleeping over at Molly’s go well.

So well, in fact, that Sherlock finds he doesn’t even dream.

The memory of the Sherrinford coffin- and the nightmares which come from it- have been his constant companions for months now, but he finds that when he sleeps in Molly’s bed they don’t appear.

His sleep is blissfully uninterrupted.

Whether it’s the smell of her body wash and detergent, or the sound of her gentle, even breathing in the darkness, a feeling of safety always settled over him whenever he crawls into her bed.

And so he finds himself looking forward to it, finding excuses to stay over even though they’re not having sex. Molly seems to assume that he’s merely looking for a way to expedite their relationship- getting his end away, she calls it- but Sherlock’s fervent denials soon put pay to that.

“I just like sleeping with you,” he says one night, when she grins at him and asks him what he’s trying to tell her.

He is aware his tone is defensive and he doesn’t like it, but there is no way in hell he wants to explain his discomfort to her.

She must see something in his eyes though for her own narrow. Her head cocks inquisitively. Again she shoots him that searching, focussed look she did that day in Amira’s when she found the scar on his thumb. She sits down on the bed beside him- “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asks and though the words sound accusatory, their tone is gentle. Sweet. Caring.

She’s reached out her little hand and it’s rubbing softly against his arm, its warmth and weight a welcome, soothing thing.

For a moment Sherlock considers telling her, unburdening himself. Letting her a little closer. Though she knows something of Eurus’ trick with the coffin, she doesn’t know it all. She doesn’t know how he tore it apart with his bare hands, and she doesn’t know the nightmares he’s been having because of it. But as soon as he opens his mouth to speak the words they stop. Stall.

He doesn’t want to worry her; He doesn’t want to burden her with his own dark feelings.

He drops her gaze, moves away from her and out of the corner of his eye he sees the look of hurt on her face.

As quickly as it was there though it’s gone, Molly shaking her head and visibly forcing herself not to become upset. Muttering something to herself about how she shouldn’t take it personally.

He can’t help it at that moment- He stands, pulls her to him. Wraps his arms fiercely around her. When she comes- however unwillingly- he tilts her head back. Trails his fingers along her cheekbones, staring into her eyes.

Their faces are now so close their lashes could touch.

“You’re not the only one who needs time,” he says quietly. His throat works, and he can hear his own heart, thudding loudly in his chest. He feels her fingers splay and curl against his back. “I just… I can’t- I’m not ready-”

His words are stopped when she presses her lips sweetly to his and lays her forehead against his chest.

“Not yet?” she asks, and the hurt has cleared from her eyes.

They’re bright. Sweet. Utterly familiar and utterly beloved.

Sherlock can feel the sentiment they evoke burning warmly in his chest and oh, but he is glad.

“Not yet,” he says though, his voice catching. He knows he can’t tell her how he feels, not without pressuring her. Not without making her worry.

He hasn’t a right to do that to her, he tells himself. _Not when she hasn’t decided to keep him yet._

“But soon?” she asks and he smiles. Nods. Wraps his arms more tightly around her and pulls her to him until she seems to fill his arms up. To fill his whole world up. Her scent is in his nostrils and her voice shivers against the shell of his ear. Her tongue is wet against his earlobe.

“Let’s go to bed,” she says and he smiles. Kisses her again. Pulls her close again.

She crawls away from him along the bed and when she stands pulls the covers away, gesturing for him to get in.

This time she doesn’t leave the room to change, her cheeks colouring as he watches her undress and change into her pajamas. He finds it so distracting it takes him three goes to properly tie the drawstring of his own pajama bottoms, which have become undone and have a history of falling down when he doesn’t.

Eventually though they both manage to get themselves into bed, Molly settling herself against his chest as is her wont, Sherlock burying his nose in the softness of her hair, (as is his). He reaches over and switches off the light, lets the room drift into darkness…

Molly’s even breathing fills the room, sleep coming easily to her, and he curls against her. Tightens his grip on her. “I love you, Molly Hooper,” he says softly, and in the darkness he is relieved that she can’t hear.   

* * *

 

He’s in darkness, and he hates being in darkness.

He’s in water, and he’s afraid he’s going to drown.

Sherlock opens his eyes. Looks around. There’s green light everywhere. Ice cold water everywhere. His teeth chatter, skin white and wracked with gooseflesh. He looks up and the sky is high above him. It’s back.

Cloudy.

Starless.

The moon beams down at him, bright and ragged as a blade’s cut, and he finds himself somehow terrified, frightened in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever been before.

It’s then that the rain starts.

Lightning sparks, thunder too. The rain falls down on him in sheets. In gales. His heart starts hammering, adrenaline spiking within him; He orders himself to still, to calm down, but it doesn’t seem to matter. _His body isn’t his own_. He tries to move and he hears a dim clanking, feels the pinch of iron against his wrists.

It comes to him then- He’s at the bottom of that well where Eurus left poor Victor.

The water’s leaking in from the underground river at the far side of the house, but the rain is making it colder. Wilder.

The water level is rising faster than he knows it should.

He opens his mouth to call out for help- truth be told, to scream- and as he does splinters of wood start rising to the surface around him. They jab at him. Tear at his flesh. Blond, pinewood. Treated. Varnished. His mind automatically notes that some of them are bloodied, as as he does a sliver of brass rises up to the surface too. It glimmers in the moonlight. Taunts him. Floats just out of reach.

 _I Love You_ , it says.

 _Who loves you?_ He hears a voice he doesn’t recognise murmur.

Sherlock looks down at the plaque and as he does he realises that the rain is red. Thick. Viscous. It’s not water, he realises. It’s something else, something vital-

* * *

 

He comes awake with a start, a shout, to feel warm arms around him.

Molly’s there in the dark, she’s holding onto him, and she’s telling him it’s ok.

Trying to calm himself, he lists the physical stimuli he can ascertain. His heart is pounding pulse at dangerous levels. His limbs are shaking- he can’t seem to stop it- and his face is wet with- _Jesus, with tears._ Unable to help himself he pulls away, stumbles out of her bed and into her ensuite and then proceeds to bring up the entire contents of his stomach.

When he’s done he sinks down, lays his head against the shower door and waits for her to come in. To yell at him.

He’s already shown he can’t be trusted to not bring her pain.

When she does join him though, she’s not angry, oh no. She’s worried, he can see it, and tired and unhappy that he’s unhappy. But she’s alright. She’s not falling apart with anxiety. She’s brought him a glass of water and a cool wet tea-towel for his face. She peers into her toilet disinterestedly before flushing it and laying down the seat.

Even when she sits down beside him, she says not a word.

The silence stretches out but this time, to Sherlock’s surprise, it isn’t awkward.

Unlike that day in Amira’s Cafe Molly seems confident in this situation. Not unsure. Not unsafe.

When he looks at her, she meets his gaze without difficulty, or distaste.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to croak out, “about waking you-”

Rather than say anything she moves closer to him. Lays her head on his shoulder. She brings her hand out and lays it on his.

After a moment’s hesitation he twines their fingers together.

Her thumb strokes his, moving against the raised scar from Sherrinford; When he looks at her she raises her eyebrows in question.

At his silence she shrugs.

“I was thinking,” she says. “I was thinking that I’ll be calling into work sick tomorrow- And I was thinking that I wanted to spend the day in bed with you.

Is that ok?”

Sherlock blinks, surprised. He doesn’t understand- Shouldn’t she be worried and ordering him to talk? Shouldn’t she be thinking that he’s trying to manipulate her, or that he’s an awful lot of trouble for someone she’s not even shagging.

In short, shouldn’t she be behaving differently than this?

When he still doesn’t answer she shrugs again. Puts her head on his shoulder again. “You can decide about that tomorrow,” she says.

He feels the words, bubbling up, unexpected and unwanted, and yet- “Aren’t you curious?” he asks, wincing at how hoarse his voice still sounds.

Something… Something tender, and unknowable moves in her eyes. Something he cannot believe is meant for him.

“I have questions,” she says softly. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But, as you pointed out, you’re not ready yet. You’re not ready to talk about this-” Her thumb traces over his scar. “You’re not ready to talk about whatever you left out when you told me about your sister.

But you will be. Someday.”

He cocks an eyebrow at her. Summons a bravado he didn’t think he could still feel. “You’re certain of that, are you?”

She looks right at him and then kisses his cheek. Her hand tightens against his.

“You’re waiting for me,” she says. “I’ll wait for you- Seems only fair, that.”

They fall asleep, sitting together on that cold bathroom floor and true to her word, Molly does call in sick to work. She does spend all day in bed with Sherlock.

* * *

 

It’s past eleven in the evening, when they’ve had dinner in bed and a glass of wine, that he manages to tell her about the coffin on Sherrinford, and what he did to it.

He doesn’t go into details, but she gets the story nonetheless.

When he’s finished she stares at him for a long time, her expression unreadable. Perplexing. It makes him feel… It makes him feel really nervous.

But then-

“Has anyone ever told you how bloody easy you are to love, Sherlock Holmes?” she asks, and before he can answer she kisses him and kisses him and them kisses him some more.


	5. Alchemy

_Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This is the last instalment- I hope that you all like it. Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and all who have read. I hope this doesn't disappoint._

* * *

**ALCHEMY**

* * *

 

 

Spring comes back to London- to he and Molly- as Sherlock had hoped it would.

Days turn into weeks and weeks into months, and before he knows it the one year anniversary of his ordeal in Sherrinford has arrived and he is surprised- utterly surprised- to find that he is still here.

Still alive.

Still with Molly.

Still, in fact, _going out_ with Molly.

She still hasn’t tired of him, and she still hasn’t sent him away, and that, more than anything, makes him unspeakably content.

* * *

 

He, John and Mycroft mark the Sherrinford Anniversary by meeting for a drink and toasting, as they always do, the people they’ve lost and those that are still with them. To Mary’s memory too, since her anniversary came up not long before.

The sit in Mycroft’s house, sharing war stories and ribald jokes; Watson teases the elder Holmes mercilessly over his love-life. (Turns out Lady Smallwood and Mummy Holmes get on like a house on fire, a fact which surprises nobody other than Mycroft.) Molly, on the other hand, is left well out of any discussion, Sherlock’s tetchiness and protectiveness towards her being something with which his entire family is now familiar-

_Shooting one measly wall during one measly family dinner had been surprisingly efficacious, in that regard._

It’s a good night, a night for friendship and thankfulness and remembrance, and when Sherlock stumbles home to the newly-rebuilt 221B he’s humming softly. Pleasantly inebriated. He finds Molly asleep in his bed and climbs carefully in, tries not to wake her.

She frowns in her sleep, murmuring a drowsy, soft, “You’re cold…I’ll Make y’warm… ” before falling back into unconsciousness. Curling her body more tightly around him, her little arm hooked around his waist like an anchor.

Though the nightmares come again that night, for once Sherlock doesn’t awake screaming and for that he is grateful.

The next morning he wakes her gently and tells her he loves her. He loves her so much.

She blinks at him, surprised by the words, but then…

“I love you too,” she says.

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, everyone  but John says they’re surprised when they see the evidence of he and Molly’s relationship with their own eyes.

The notion of the so-called “Morgue Mouse,” having finally snagged the object of her longtime affections is, apparently, rather a lot for the chattering classes to wrap their heads around.

So there are snide comments. Whispered hisses of disbelief. Faux-friendly bits of joshing from from faux-friendly acquaintances about how it’s sweet that Sherlock lowered his standards. ( _Yes,_ he often thinks tartly when this comes up, _a former heroin addict with a murder under his belt is obviously debasing himself by taking up with a brilliant, kind, beautiful professional who owns her own home and is at the top of her field_ ).

Rather than saying any of this when it comes up, however, he usually glowers at the speaker until they go away.

Either that or he deduces them mercilessly, which has the same effect.

The only person who doesn’t act like a dolt about he and Molly is, unbelievably, Sally Donovan. On walking in on the two of them kissing in the Morgue she merely cocks an eyebrow, informs Sherlock that if she decides to shoot him she knows the system well enough to get away with it, and then leaves.

“Lock the door, the next time,” she tosses over her shoulder as she goes- “And, congrats.”

This is, by far, Sherlock’s favourite reaction to his newfound relationship, and when he tells Molly she laughs. Nods.

“I always did like Sally,” she says.

“If she’s willing to defend you,” he says, “then clearly she has better taste than I had given her credit for.”

And he nuzzles into her shoulder, a bit ashamed of how little he had liked Sally when they met, merely because she had the audacity to stand up to him.

Molly hums soothingly and holds him in her arms, and though she doesn’t say anything, he suspects she understands.

* * *

 

It becomes a familiar thing, holding hands whenever they go out, and Sherlock finds that he likes it.

It becomes a familiar thing, kissing and touching with such tenderness, and Sherlock finds he likes that too.

What does not become familiar, or less nerve-wracking with time, are their experiments in intimacy. Nearly a year into the relationship they… do things now, things which anyone else would consider tame and vanilla but which to Sherlock seem unutterably, terrifyingly nerve-wracking. Wonderful. Brave.

It’s always too much, too hot and wet and loud and good and Molly, Molly, Molly, and he finds himself utterly overwhelmed every time in a way which he can’t even begin to explain.

He has, after all, never discerned a way to keep himself safe when he and Molly are pressed together, naked and warm and breathless. There is no way to maintain an adequate emotional distance, he suspects, when one feels for one’s lover as he feels for his. And so, though he enjoys their forays into love-making and physical affection, he finds he cannot become entirely comfortable with them. Though he loves them- loves her- he finds that their interactions always unsettle him: The human heart, is, he suspects, simply not built to hold this much feeling- _Or maybe it’s merely **his** that is not._

It worries him sometimes, the idea of his being so set apart and, and alien, but one look at Molly’s joyous, satisfied reaction to his attentions is enough to offset it- Usually.

Usually.

_Given how he feels about her however, Sherlock feels “usually,” will have to do._

He just wishes that making love with Molly wasn’t the one reliable trigger for his nightmares about Sherrinford.

* * *

 

Sometimes, he dreams he’s crushing Molly’s heart in his hands.

Sometimes he smashes the coffin apart, only to find her inside, already dead at his hand.

Sometimes he dreams of her, locked at the bottom of that well that Eurus had left both Victor and John trapped in, and those are always the worst nightmares, always, always.

You see, in those nightmares he’s put her there. He’s standing beside his sister and staring down at Molly, hearing Eurus tell him how proud she is of him now that he’s finally accepted what he really is…

 _Who loves you?_ That voice he never recognises asks him and in his nightmares the only answer he can summon is, family. _Only family_.

Afterwards he always rises and has a shower; he tells himself it’s because he sweats so much during it but he knows that’s not it.

No, the thought of his sister being right, the suspicion of how alike they might turn out to be, it makes him feel unclean. Horrid.

_Afraid._

_He’s getting so tired of being afraid of what he might do to Molly._

If she’s awake he always pulls her into the shower with him when she comes to check on him. Makes love to her with a fierceness which he never musters anywhere else. It makes no sense; the shower’s spray should be one stimuli too many, the sort of thing which finally overwhelms him and makes him unable to act on his feelings for her. It should make him feel even more out of control than being with her normally does.

It seems, however, to have the opposite effect- Or maybe he just needs to prove to himself in the aftermath of such a nightmare that he is still capable of making her happy. That his need for her- his love for her- isn’t merely a thing which can cause her harm. So he kisses her. Brings her to climax. In the aftermath she’s always tender. Gentle.

She towels him down and winds him in her arms, strokes her fingers through his hair and kisses his temples.

He finds that he loves it.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her one night, when the dreams had been particularly horrible and his need for her had been particularly intense. “I wish I wasn’t like this…”

“Hush.” She kisses him sweetly on the lips. Takes his face in her hands and tilts it up until he’s looking straight at her. The look of love in her eyes is enough to make him flinch.

“You spent your whole life trying not to feel anything, Sherlock,” she says softly. “You recently discovered that feeling too much may have driven your sister mad.

Nobody in those circumstances would expect you to be good with emotions, not if they’d a brain in their head.” She kisses his forehead. “And I’ve certainly got one of those, haven’t I?”

Her words are so intent, and so honest, and so, so her, that Sherlock finds himself nodding along with her. Pulling her closer.

They lay down on the bed together, face to face, their hands twined together in knots.

They don’t sleep, and they don’t speak much, but the feeling of sheer… rightness is something Sherlock won’t even attempt to put into words.

When Molly comes home from Bart’s the next day though, he’s written out the Molly Tune and left it for her, along with a recording of it for her phone.

* * *

 

The day the thing between he and Molly stops being terrifying and starts being normal is caused by, of all things, a London black cab (or rather, a collision with one). Given the state of her finances- and given 221B’s nearness to Bart’s- Molly has taken to cycling into work and home, the better to spend more time in bed with Sherlock and less time being squashed on the tube.

_The fact that cycling in London traffic means she’s actually awake by the time she gets to work merely sweetens the deal._

On the day in question, Sherlock gets a phone-call from Mike Stamford, asking him to come into Bart’s and have a word with Molly. Turns out she’s had an accident- she was knocked off her bike by a cabbie- and they think she’s being a little irrational because of it.

She is, apparently, refusing to go home.

Mike’s barely got the word, “accident,” out of his mouth than Sherlock’s got his coat on, his feet lodged impatiently into his shoes. His footsteps thud on the landing as he rushes out of 221B and immediately flags down a cab, imagination already going into overdrive as he runs through possible scenarios of Molly’s injury, each more lurid than the last. _Could one of his enemies have found her?_ He wonders. _Could it be a message to him from some new nemesis? Had Eurus decided to make a move, to nudge the woman he loved a little and see how she would react to it..?_

By the time he gets to Bart’s he’s a wreck, ready to fight a dragon or call a solicitor or even, perhaps, put Molly over his shoulder and damn well carry her safely home…

As it turns out though, not everything is about him.

In fact, as it turns out, this is not any sort of Vatican Cameos scenario at all.

For when he reaches her, he finds her sitting in Stamford’s office and nursing a cup of tea, and all those thoughts go out the window. She’s clearly calm and alert; though her face is a little bruised and her foot elevated it’s clear that she’s more irritated by not being able to stand than anything else. That, and all the people hovering. She hates people hovering, if they’re not him. BUT-

She is not screaming.

She is not hysterical.

She is not in the grip of some sort of trauma, the only thing with which Sherlock realises with a start that he feels himself qualified to deal.

_She’s alright._

_**She’s alright.** _

When he enters she looks up at him and scowls, throwing an irritated look at Stamford. “You didn’t need to worry him like that, Mike,” she says pointedly. “Look at how upset you’ve made him: He’s not even dressed-”

It’s at this point that Sherlock realises two things: one, he’s not dressed and is, in fact, still wearing nothing but his shoes, coat, boxers and his dressing gown, something which makes his unusual difficulty in flagging down a cab a little more explicable.

And two…  

Two is that Molly is alright, and she’s more worried about him than he is about her. She’s afraid that he’s been upset, and she’s trying to prevent it from happening even though she’s the one who’s been hit by a car. A rush of tenderness overwhelms him, and with it fondness, amusement. Relief that things aren’t more serious. Relief that she wanted him here. She looks up at him, holding her arms out in welcome and it comes to him then, a… clicking into place. An understanding.

It’s not nearly so loud and impressive as the coming together of clues in a case, but then it’s so much more momentous than that.

For this… This is affinity. A sense of homecoming so strong it nearly floors him. There’s something in the person before him, he thinks, something that … matches something in him. A jigsaw piece of sinew and psyche.

It reminds him, oddly, of that first time he met John and the weird, immediate connection they had.

He doesn’t know why it happens in that moment, or what prompts it, but he feels a… lightening somehow. As if something has been literally lifted from his shoulders. As if something in his Mind Palace has altered its shape. Become more amenable.  

So he he strides into the room and kneels down in front of Molly. Gives her a cursory inspection, scowling in annoyance when he feels her slightly swollen ankle. “I got his plate number,” she tells him quietly. “I already sent it to Greg; it’s not his department but he said he’d pass it on.”

“You’re damn right he will.” Sherlock nods, turns her head this way and that as he examines the bruising and gashed skin on her cheek. All her other injuries have been looked after. “It looks worse than it is,” he hears her murmur and he nods absentmindedly. Hooks his hands under her knees and then, with only a small grunt of effort, straightens up and goes to carry her out.

“Sherlock!” she says, embarrassed. “Sherlock, I’m fine, I can work-”

He looks at her, one eyebrow cocked. “You can’t stand and your jaw needs ice: Don’t forget who you’re dealing with, Molly.”

She opens her mouth, about to snap an answer, and he leans in. Lowers his voice.

“Let me take care of you for once, alright?” he says quietly. “Just… Trust me to do this for you.”

She frowns at him, surprised perhaps, and intrigued, he can see that. For a moment she opens her mouth, clearly about to ask him something, but at the last moment she thinks better of it and nods. Leans slightly into him. She presses a kiss to his cheek.

“I wouldn’t want anyone else,” she says softly, and he knows she’s not only talking about his ice-pack placing abilities.

He carries her out to the pavement and hails a cab; It’s only later he realises she left her bag behind but he doesn’t say a word.

* * *

 

He sleeps that night. He dreams that night.

He dreams of the Sherrinford coffin.

This time though, when it appears he doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t smash it. Instead he pushes the lid off gently and when he sees Molly inside, he smiles.

With a soft kiss to her lips he climbs in. Lies beside her. They turn so they’re on their sides, face to face. Eye to eye. The coffin rocks slightly, as if borne by gentle waves, and when Sherlock looks up he sees blue skies above him. Hears the whisper of a gentle day at sea.

When he looks back at Molly her hand is curled inside his chest, holding his heart.

“Go ahead, love,” she says quietly, “It’s alright: I promise.”

He presses his hand to her chest and feels bone and sinew give way until he, too, is holding her heart in his hand. It’s warm. Comforting. Its beat is so soothing.

“So this is alchemy, not vivisection,” he says. “I rather think I shall like it.”

And with that he lies back in his coffin and lets the wind and the sea and these two beating hearts take him where they will.

**THE END OF THE BEGINNING**


End file.
